Poetry       Prose       Letters

Georg Trakl


To the Silenced

O, the madness of the great city, when in the evening
The stunted trees stare at the black wall,
The spirit of evil gazes from a silver mask;
Light displaces the stony night with a magnetic scourge.
O, the sunken sound of evening bells.

Whore, who in icy shudders bears a dead babe.
Raging, God's wrath lashes the forehead of the possessed,
Purple pestilence, hunger that breaks green eyes.
O, the horrible laughter of gold.

But muter humanity quietly bleeds in a dark cave,
Assembles the redeeming head out of hard metals.


© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt



Poetry       Prose       Letters

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